


cat-like reflexes

by cave_canem



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, gratuitous and probably erroneous description of an exy court
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:00:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21745657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cave_canem/pseuds/cave_canem
Summary: Neil found King Fluffkins in the street. Sir was picked up by Andrew in a slightly less conventional way. (It involves Exy.)
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 18
Kudos: 226





	cat-like reflexes

**Author's Note:**

> This story was 100% inspired by a post I cannot find atm about how this cat was found on a hockey rink, given a punny name after the captain of the team and later adopted by a player's family. She became a mascot and a good-luck charm for the team, or something.
> 
> My first thought was to make it andreil. My second thought was, how does a cat get into a giant locked plastic box? My third thought was, eh. Who cares.

The clamor of the audience carries to the Lynx’s locker room even before they open the doors.

“What the fuck?” asks Coach Li.

“Good reactions today,” says Audrey, their captain. She grins at her players. “We’re going to own this game.”

“Don’t,” warns Li. “This isn’t normal.”

Neil looks up from his hands, busy with his gloves. He feels an anxious kind of restlessness, like he’s a rookie again stepping up under the harsh lights of the Foxhole Court for the first time. He fiddles with the Velcro strap of his gloves again as the players all look at Li, disconcerted by the noise filtering back to them.

This is their turf. This isn’t supposed to happen; their audience isn’t supposed to betray them like this.

A hand covers his own, blocking his sight. Neil follows the armguard back up to Andrew’s familiar blank expression.

“Calm the fuck down,” he says in a low voice.

“I’m just impatient.”

“You’re nervous.”

“First time on the court since my injury.”

“Don’t be stupid. You’ve been to practice.”

“It’s not the same,” Neil argues.

This is championship game. If they win it, it’s a direct path to finals. After spending most of the spring in a splint, Neil is desperate for action. Practice has been going well, but this game is different. He’d just made starting line when an accident with a backliner took him out of the game for several; he’s barely been able to enjoy the position.

So, really, this isn’t the time for tempers to rise in the bleachers.

“I think something’s happening,” Coach Li says. “Let’s get out of there and see what it is.” He pins his players with an intense look. “Whatever the problem is with the opposite team, I want you all to be civil and as un-antagonistic as possible. Got it?”

“Yes, coach,” they chorus.

Neil is among the last players to file out. Andrew steps out behind him, pushing him forward with a simple hand on his back. Their bulky gloves make contact difficult, but Neil wishes he could turn back and hold his hand.

The noise and movement hit him like a flash in the face. Neil rolls his shoulders under his padding, physically shrugging the tension away. This is Exy, what he was made to play. Nothing can distract him from that: not an injury that’s healed anyway, or the Moriyama and their ever-present hold over his life. There is no fighting the rush of adrenaline that stepping into the ring gives him.

It takes the team a while to realize what’s wrong. They’ve taken up their racquets and are waiting for the go-ahead of the referees to open the doors of the court when Neil sees it, and his team after him.

“What’s that?” Carla asks at his side. She twirls her backliner racquet in her hands nervously. “It moved. There, next to the away goal.”

The team squints in the direction she points to. Andrew raises his head, looking for the giant screens hanging in the air across the court.

“Cat,” he says.

The team looks up instantly. There is a black cat slinking past the away goal, almost crawling on the floor with fear. It presses against the wall, disturbing the sensitive sensors, and jumps three feet in the air when the wall lights up red.

In the outer ring, Neil can’t hear the sound of the buzzer, deactivated for pre-game warming ups. The fans in the bleachers scream louder, sending the cat in another fit of panic.

“They need to stop making so much noise,” he tells Joe, who’s laughing along with the others.

“What?”

“The cat,” Neil says, louder. “They won’t catch it if they make so much noise. It’ll calm down on its own if we’re all quiet.”

Joe glances at him like he’s gone crazy. “You want to tell forty-thousand people to stop reacting to a cat in a sports stadium?”

“Forget it.”

Joe dismisses the conversation with a flick of his hand. Neil can see the commentators having a field day in the press box, turning back often to check on the cat’s progress.

“Someone should get in here and get it out,” Audrey says, frowning. “We’ll be running late.”

Coach Li nods. “I’ve been told they called the animal protection services,” he tells his team, gesturing at them to gather up around him. “They’re on their way.”

Audrey looks at the points board, frowning. “At this time of the night? They’ll never get there on time.”

“We’ll be playing with a delay,” concedes Li. “Probably half an hour.”

Dev groans. “I promised my daughter I’d see her before bedtime tonight.”

“Should have brought her here if you wanted to spend time with her,” Carla says, but Dev makes a face.

“She doesn’t like sports.”

“I know someone like that,” Neil says, elbowing Andrew. “Real pain to drag him to the court every day.”

“Maybe you should stop trying, then,” Andrew replies. The Lynx snicker around them.

They turn back to the court just in time to see the cat flee down the length of the court, in reaction to the movement on the away side: the Lynx’s opponents are stepping out of their locker room.

“Jesus,” Li sighs. They watch the cat try to climb the plexiglass wall before realizing it’s impossible. “What a mess.”

“At least the fans are in a good mood,” Audrey says, sounding unconvinced by her own words. “And the players,” she adds as they watch the Panthers realize what’s happening.

One of them waves at the Lynx, pointing at the cat. Carla answers with an exaggerated thumbs up that gets caught on camera and broadcasted to the entire stadium. It’s not the most subtle way of communication, but at least it’s efficient.

“How did a cat even get stuck in there?” Neil wonders.

“Maybe it came in with the cleaning crew,” Andrew replies.

“A fan brought it in their bag and it fled the bleachers,” Neil suggests.

“A kitten sneaked in months ago and has been secretly growing in a supply closet.”

“It’s been infiltrated in by the company that waxes the floor to get more commissions.”

“I planted it here in hope to get the game canceled,” Andrew says.

“I don’t believe that. You wouldn’t be this cruel to the poor thing.”

Andrew glares at Neil. Neil just grins.

They watch the cat for another five minutes before Neil’s impatience stirs again. “Any news on the animal people?” he asks Li.

“No, Neil,” Joe says, faux-solemn. “The _animal people_ aren’t there yet.”

“Didn’t you literally adopt a cat recently? Shouldn’t you know the names of the animal societies in town?”

“I found Sir in the street,” Neil reminds them.

Andrew rises from the bench where he’s sitting next to Neil. He puts down his tall racquet across Neil’s lap, stuffing his gloves in his helmet.

“Andrew?” Neil asks.

No one reacts when Andrew hands his helmet to Neil before tugging off his jersey.

“Uh,” Carla says, when Andrew drops it on the bench. He quickly undoes his padding, leaving only his undershirt on.

“Hot-dog,” he tells Joe.

He snaps his fingers in front of Joe’s face when he doesn’t get an immediate reaction; there’s a shuffle among the Lynx as they rush to get some meat from one of the selling booths.

Neil hands him back his jersey, then Andrew accepts the hot-dog that Rosie, their newest sub, hands him with wide, curious eyes. Jersey and food in hand, he turns to the referee manning the doors. Neil isn’t sure what he tells them, but a second later the door cracks open, just wide enough for Andrew to step onto the court.

The Lynx get up as one, crowding around the plexiglass wall. Neil, still holding Andrew’s helmet, catches himself biting his lip.

The cat is still halfway down the court. Unless the occasional videos that Neil has seen where animals have entered baseball diamonds or football fields, there is nothing on an Exy court to help it escape, only lines traced on the ground. It must have been there for a long while; the doors must have closed before the audience filled in—until now.

The angle doesn’t let Neil see the cat, his view blocked by Andrew’s back.

“No,” he tells his teammates who start walking down the ring to meet with Andrew. “You’ll scare the cat. Stay there.”

“The cameras are picking it up,” Audrey mentions, gesturing overhead.

Luckily, the opposite team has the same idea and they stay put. Everyone cranes their necks to watch Andrew’s progress on the screen.

Andrew takes it slowly, attracting the cat with bits of hot-dog sausage. The cat calms down easily, once it feels a presence of which to focus instead of the waves of sound and movement in the bleachers. Within a few minutes, Andrew has cornered it peacefully enough that he can lay his jersey on top of the cat and picks it up with one hand, still feeding it sausage with the other under the edge of the jersey.

“Slippery,” Dev says as the cat tries to slither out of Andrew’s grasp.

“He’s used to it,” Neil says. His trust is rewarded; Andrew sticks the uneaten hot-dog between his teeth and uses both hands to hold the cat against him, wrapped in the jersey.

The fans in the bleachers let out another clamor. Andrew doesn’t pay them any attention. His focus is on the animal he’s carrying and his pace is quick but even as he walks back to the doors, letting the referees usher him out.

The Lynx gather around him. Andrew throws away the remnants of hot-dog, not relenting his hold on the cat.

“It’s a stray,” he tells them. No one asks him how he knows, but Neil, who _has_ found their current cat in the literal trash in the middle of winter, can imagine what made Andrew come to the conclusion.

“The animal services will be there soon,” Li says. “I got a message while you were in there, they’re pulling up in the parking lot.”

“Good for them,” Andrew replies.

He goes to sit back down on the bench, holding the cat securely in his lap. Neil joins him, cautious of his movements. He wishes he could lift the jersey and see the head of the animal.

“So,” he says.

“So you get to play earlier than predicted,” Andrew says. “Aren’t you happy.”

Neil hides a smile behind the grill of his helmet.

“Sure,” he says, right as a woman holding a plastic animal carrier enters the ring.

* * *

They win 8-3, which is enough of a slaughter that the most superstitious fans and players immediately attribute the win to the influence of the cat.

“And all of our hard work?” asks Audrey, disgruntled.

Neil silently agrees with her. His wrist is fully healed or he wouldn’t be back in, but he doesn’t object to the team physician quickly looking over it.

“You can complain during the interviews.” Coach Li ushers them back to the locker room. “Come on, hurry up. We’re late and everyone wants to go home.”

“Dev is already in the shower,” Joe says.

“A man of wisdom,” proclaims Li. “Hurry up. Audrey, Neil, press.”

Neil puts his inner glove back on and dutifully shuffles toward the press corner, where collapsable tables have already been erected. As vice-captain, he’s used to press duty, but it’s only when Joe suggests, “wait, let’s have Minyard as well,” that he realizes that the conference is not going to revolve around their game tactics.

“No,” Andrew says. He stalks to the changing rooms without even glancing backward.

Audrey looks satisfied. She takes her seat at the table and opens the interviews, giving the reporters a soundbite that doesn’t sound practiced but is and neatly sidestepping questions unrelated to the game. Neil answers the remarks about offense, keeping his bias as professional as he can and killing in any suggestions that his recent injury might still affect him.

It goes well until the last five minutes.

“And how about the cat?” someone asks.

“It’s a cat,” replies Neil.

“It’s being taken care of by the animal services,” Audrey intervenes. “I’ve been told it’s a stray without identification, so it’ll probably be put up for adoption.”

“Would you say a real feline presence on court is the reason of your win tonight?”

“I’d say our win tonight was the result of the whole team’s work, from the mascot to the players,” Neil says. “If that’s all, I think we should wrap up.”

It’s not all, but they wrap up anyway.

“So, Andrew and cats, huh?” Audrey asks as they make their way back to the changing rooms.

Neil shrugs. “It was getting boring,” he says. “And you already know we have one at home.”

“I wasn’t making stuff up about its adoption. Have you thought about taking it in?”

Neil blinks. “I’d have to talk to Andrew about it.”

“If what we saw is anything to go by, he won’t say no.”

“Just because he picked it up so we could play doesn’t mean he wants it as a pet.”

Audrey just winks at him. “Think about it! It would stay close to the team. You wouldn’t want to throw away our chances of winning like that.”

“I don’t think a cat is going to do anything to our score if it’s the only thing we rely on against the Sirens in finals,” Neil says.

“You’re impossible,” Audrey says. “I would take that damn cat myself but I’m allergic. Just admit it’d be cute.”

Neil is spared having to do more than nod when they split up in the changing rooms. The men are all done already, so Neil showers perfunctorily and dresses quickly.

The entire defense line is gathered around Andrew’s seat when Neil steps into their locker room. Carla has her phone out, which Andrew pointedly avoids looking at.

“What’s happening?” Neil asks, coming to stand inside the circle.

Andrew kicks at his shoe lightly and gets up. “Nothing.”

“We’re showing pictures of the cat to Andrew,” Carla says. “The shelter hasn’t put her up on their website, but they’ve been sending updates.”

She angles her phone toward Neil, scrolling past pictures of a skinny black cat, first held by a pair of gloved hands, then down on a vet table, after receiving some kind of treatment, after a bath, on a blue cat bed. Even the latest pictures don’t hide the way her fur is poked with holes or her ears nicked with scars. She has the wide-eyed stare in the first pictures of a cat plucked from a familiar environment, though she’s sleeping in the last one.

“They’re calling her Andrea Mewyard,” Carla tells him.

“They’re calling her _what_?”

“Because Andrew was the one who picked her up, but she’s a female so they can’t just use Andrew.”

Neil glances at Andrew, jaw set in stubborn silence.

“It’s a terrible name,” he says.

“I know, it’s great,” gushes Carla. “So, are you taking her or what?”

“Why would we take her?”

“Uh, because it’s clearly meant to be?” Carla taps on her screen, pulling up another picture. “Look, they got some Lynx merchandise and Andrew’s clearly her favorite.”

The picture turns out to be a video. They’ve aligned a few plush toys, supposed to represent the Lynx, that Neil remembers being made two years ago for a child cancer charity campaign. The whole team isn’t present, but Neil spies Audrey’s short blue hair and his own, more ginger than auburn. On the far left is Andrew’s toy, holding his oversized racquet. The blank expression that all the dolls have is the most realistic part of Andrew’s likeliness. On the video, the cat—and Neil might have gone with Nicky’s dumb names for King, but he refuses to refer to this one as _Andrew Mewyard_ —immediately goes for Andrew’s doll when she’s let free to roam in front of the line-up. She sniffs at it, pats it with a cautious paw a few times, then completely loses interest.

“Incredible,” Neil says in a monotonous voice.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Carla says. “You have to get her. The shelter said they’d let us twenty-four hours to decide whether anyone from the team wants her, and then they’ll put her up for adoption for everyone. They have high hopes that she’ll be adopted quickly.”

“Good for her,” Neil says honestly. “We should go. Bye,” he adds when they don’t seem to get the hint.

Andrew walks ahead, twirling the keyring around his finger until he has to use the fob to unlock the Maserati.

Neil closes the door behind himself with a sigh.

“Not a word,” Andrew says, starting up the car, before Neil can even open his mouth.

“I haven’t said anything. You know, you were very efficient out there.”

Andrew doesn’t reply. Neil gives him five minutes to stew before trying again when Andrew stops at a red light.

“Seriously. King has been feeling lonely lately. We’ve talked about getting a second cat. Why not this one?”

“It’s barely a cat,” Andrew says. “More of a black flea-ridden rodent.”

He might be right about the fleas. They had Andrew disinfect his arms and hands before putting on his gear again, and he was given a new jersey to play with.

“Maybe she’s a kitten. Think of how quickly King grew when we started feeding her correctly.”

King Fluffkins has lived up to her name perfectly: she’s grown a long fur that bunches up on their rugs and likes to sit straight on top of the couch, regally sunbathing.

“I don’t know how else to convince you,” Neil says, playing his last card, “other than with the fact that at least if we adopt her we get to pick the name. Do you want a fan to get her and live in a world where you could have prevented _Andrea Mewyard_ but didn’t?"

Andrew doesn’t say anything, but his next turn sends Neil against the door of the car. Neil doesn’t take offense, because he looks like he’s seriously considering the matter for the rest of the journey back home.

He doesn’t say anything about the cat for the rest of the evening, short as it is, and Neil doesn’t bring the subject up either. There are only a couple of hours left before the end of the shelter’s twenty-four hours deadline when Andrew throws Neil’s phone at him when he’s sitting on the couch.

Neil has to clamp his thighs together to catch it. “Yes?” he asks, picking it up.

“Call the damn shelter,” Andrew says without looking away from the television.

He’s not really watching; his eyes are fixing a point on the shelf above the TV. Neil grins, unlocking his phone, and pulls up the shelter’s number that Carla gave him the previous day, just in case.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment if you've enjoyed or spotted a typo, which would be likely because I wrote this in two hours and didn't have time to proofread it before posting. 
> 
> As always, you can find me and [reblog the fic](https://jsteneil.tumblr.com/post/189592001206/cat-like-reflexes) on tumblr @jsteneil!


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